Death Is The Chillness That

When Christ Ascended Triumphantly From Star To Star He Left The Gates Of Heaven Ajar.

They, The Holy Ones And Weakly, Who The Cross Of Suffering Bore, Folded Their Pale Hands So Meekly, Spake With Us On Earth No More!

Many A Poem Is Marred By A Superfluous Verse.

Nothing Is Or Can Be Accidental With God.

Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly, Yet They Grind Exceeding Small; Though With Patience He Stands Waiting, With Exactness Grinds He All.